I cannot deem why men toil so for Fame. A porter is a porter though his load Be the oceaned world, and although his road Be down the ages. What is in a name? Ah! 't is our spirit's curse to strive and seek. Although its heart is rich in pearls and ores, The Sea complains upon a thousand shores; Sea-like we moan for ever. We are weak. We ever hunger for diviner stores. I cannot say I have a thirsting deep For human fame, nor is my spirit bowed To be a mummy above ground to keep For stare and handling of the vulgar crowd, Defrauded of my natural rest and sleep.